


Obsessive

by enenre



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 14:06:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9552212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enenre/pseuds/enenre
Summary: Falling in love is as inevitable as a dream.





	

What a stupid, stupid thing he had done. 

The moment he had laid eyes on him that summer, sitting nonchalantly at a muggle café, his dark hair swaying gently in the breeze, reading a muggle newspaper, his cup of coffee leaving repeated circles of stain on the pretty, white tablecloth, he should have turned straight back and walked away. 

Instead, of all the foolish things, he had mumbled an excuse about seeing a childhood friend to the Weasleys and had crossed the street over to muggle London before he could think twice about it. 

He had found himself standing uncertainly— _foolishly_ —in front of him. 

Tom had taken one look at him, lowered his newspaper slowly, and, with a smirk spreading lazily across his face, had invited him to sit down. 

And he had. 

*** 

What had followed left him reeling, surreal, that whole day. 

They had talked politics—then Quidditch—then world domination—then Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. And at one point in the conversation, Tom's hand had rested on his—and stayed that way for the rest of the time. 

He didn't move it away. 

*** 

When Tom had asked, at the end, to meet him again, he had said no. 

Involuntarily turning pink at the request. 

Then he said yes, uncertainly. 

Still blushing. 

Tom had bent down; closely, closely—close enough to kiss—and had whispered him a promise. 

His breath tickled his ears. 

When Tom had long gone, he punched the wall. 

*** 

Mrs. Weasley was the first to notice the large purple bruise and the litter of grazes adorning his right hand. 

She had gasped, been horrified, and had asked him if he'd got into a fight. 

He had said no, _I tripped on the stairs and knocked it on the wall._ He said it unflinchingly. 

And Mrs. Weasley had left it, although she still shot him worried glances when she thought he wasn't looking.

He caught every one. 

*** 

When the Weasleys gathered into teams to play Quidditch, with Hermione sitting nearby with a large tome, all he could think of was how his mouth had curled into a smile and how he had placed his chin into his hand, using his fingers to hide that smile—or perhaps it was a smirk. 

But he hadn't been able to hide it. 

And when Harry had seen it he had felt a funny sort of clenching in his stomach. 

He realized that the snitch had been floating lazily in his face for the past five minutes and he had been staring straight at it vapidly. 

*** 

When September 1st loomed, he dreaded it with all his might for the first time in his life. 

He grew depressed, angry, and frustrated — glaring and scowling at everyone. 

When Ginny finally snapped at him, he had apologized, but he wasn't sorry at all. 

He wouldn't see him. 

***

 A letter arrived with a very regal grey owl two days before the 1st. 

She dropped the letter on Harry's plate and swooped off, but not before piercing the Weasleys with a disdainful stare. 

The elegant, flowing hand inside reminded him strongly of the long, white fingers. 

The long, white fingers curled around his own hand, softly, gently stroking—cradling the cup of coffee, curled around his mouth, hiding the smile. 

The letter contained only three words. 

_And he had gone._

The familiar jerk of a portkey tugged just behind his navel. 

***

He was deposited awkwardly in a graveyard. 

Tom was standing there again—in front of the tomb with the large angel. 

To his left stood a cracked tombstone with the words _Tom Riddle_ fading from it. 

He was smiling at him—not hidden behind his hand. 

His hands were twirling his bone-white yew wand. 

 _He_ didn't have his wand with him. It was lying on his bedside table next to the cup he had filched from the café—the cup which had been cradled in Tom's hand, pressed against his lips. 

Tom was in front of him, leaning over him, his fingers tangled in his hair and his lips tickling his ears like they'd once done. 

_Would you like to die, Harry?_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think.


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